


Cold Comfort

by Saavikam77



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 23:30:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6214492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saavikam77/pseuds/Saavikam77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No, Len's NOT okay after dealing with Mick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> Follows 1.07, assuming Len actually did the unthinkable to Mick (though that will definitely be jossed by tonight's ep). A huge thank you to kitkaos on LJ for the push I needed to get the boys' characterization right.

When Len got back to the Waverider, he stalked straight to his cabin, ignoring the pleading eyes and sad half-smiles he passed along the way. He'd done what he had to do, and Mick was no longer a threat. Nothing more to be done or said. No point in hashing it out with anyone. The team was safe, end of story.

Didn't mean he didn't feel like utter shit.

 _Traitor,_ his mind helpfully supplied as he slammed his palm against the panel on the wall to lock the door behind him, resisting the urge to freeze it so he could just stay in here forever and rot for what he'd done, the cabin a prison of his own making. He certainly deserved it, for bringing Mick on this goddamn mission and putting him in the position he had. How else could it have all played out?

His body heavy with exhaustion, he stripped off his coat and removed his cold gun and holster, placing them on the floor next to Mick's flame gun. A gun that would never be used again, that should never be used again. He'd have to drop it back at STAR Labs the next time they passed through Central City in 2016. Fuck, he'd get the pitying looks from them, too.

Dropping down on his bunk, he picked up Mick's gun and laid it across his lap to inspect the device. Scorch marks marred the front and sides where flames had spewed forth and licked the metal alloy, soot caked in crevices where various components met. What was all Mick, though, was the worn grip, where Len's partner had held the power of fire and not let go, curling and uncurling his fingers repetitively even when there was no fight to be had. He never did understand that obsession with fire, but he respected it. They were two sides of the same coin: Fire and Ice, Heat and Cold.

Now just Cold. What kind of goddamn balance was that?

Despite his best effort, memories of their first meeting flashed before his mind's eye. Mick was already hulking at eighteen, tall and broad, eyes that danced with fascination at the flame of the little lighter he'd smuggled into juvie. Terrifying to everyone but Len, who knew damn well what that kind of fascination really meant, the horror of a childhood gone wrong only soothed with laser-focused obsession. He'd always figured Mick must've seen the same thing in him, must've known how bad little punk Len needed protecting.

_Punk kid._

Fuck.

Just as he lifted a hand to scrub over his face, the door chimed and a soft voice called out, “Len?”

Christ, it was Palmer. Just what he needed, annoying babble and movie quotes. “What?” he snapped back.

“Um, can I come in? I just want to make sure you're okay.”

No, he wasn't fucking okay. “I'm _fine,_ ” he replied, his lips twisting with the lie.

A moment passed, Len thinking he'd gotten the message and had left, but then Ray spoke again, “I know. I mean, I though you might want to talk about it. Or … whatever.”

Len took two slow breaths, deciding. Ray was such a damn puppy, so fucking eager to please and irritating as hell about it. Be helpful to others, the Boy Scout motto. Right. He was gonna get them all killed if he kept it up. But after today … Len knew couldn't completely discount Palmer. The idiot had risked his ass to seal the breach on the engine room. To help his teammates. And he'd earned Mick's respect in the gulag before that. Len supposed that should probably count for something, too.

“Fine,” he relented with a put-upon sigh. He didn't have to make it easy for Palmer, though. “If you can get through the lock, you can come in.”

Another moment passed, and Len could almost hear the self-satisfied smile on Ray's face when he said, “Gideon, override lock, authorization code six-two-seven-four-alpha.”

Of course Ray knew the override codes. He'd probably made the Waverider's operation manuals his nighttime reading before bed.

The door slid open with a chime, and Ray stepped in quietly. “Are you sure you're okay?” he asked as the door closed again. “I know Mick was your partner for a really long time, and I kinda feel like it's my fault he got dragged into this, and … I should probably just shut up, shouldn't I?”

“You should, yes,” Len bit out. Catching Ray's concerned gaze, he saw the turmoil there, the apology waiting on his lips, the beginning of another spiel about loyalty and friendship and teamwork and responsibility, all that shit, and that was the last thing Len wanted right now. It was too fucking much. Leveling a warning look at Ray, he said, “You want to accept responsibility for something? Help me disarm this thing.”

Ray glanced down at Mick's gun where it still lie across Len's lap, and swallowed, his lips pressed thin. Nodding, he sat down on the bunk beside Len, quiet, simply clasping his hands together between his knees as if he didn't dare touch the flame gun. He looked back up at Len with furrowed brows, question and what Len knew to be fear lurking in dark eyes.

At the mere hint that Ray Palmer might be afraid—of Mick's gun, of _him_ —Len felt his chest tighten. Fear was a formidable weapon to have in one's arsenal, but Ray … Ray didn't deserve that. Something akin to shame flashed through him, and Len's throat felt like it wanted to close up on him, leaving him unable to speak.

 _Stupid Boy Scout,_ he wanted to spit. He wanted to punch Ray in his pretty fucking face for being such a … a _good guy,_ for making Len want to grow a conscience, for making him feel even worse about what he'd had to do. He wanted to snarl at him, wanted to freeze his ass in place and walk away.

Just like he'd—

Fuck, Mick hadn't even had a chance.

Sucking in a shuddering breath, Len grasped the gun a little tighter. His hand curled and uncurled around the grip where Mick had once held it, his finger almost on the trigger.

“Len? Hey,” Ray said softly beside him, a hand coming up to squeeze Len's shoulder, warm and solid.

At the unexpected contact, Len blinked hard, drawn back from a dangerous place, and he glanced up to find Ray looking even more worried now. Dammit, this wasn't like him, wasn't the way he operated. He'd seen too many guys like him lose it, unable to handle the tough choices in their line of work. Len knew better.

But Mick wasn't just a 'tough choice'; Mick was his partner, his responsibility. He'd just never thought he'd have to end that responsibility. And what kind of 'tell me again about the rabbits, George' bullshit was that, anyway?

Ray's arm slid around Len's shoulders then, and he couldn't help slumping into the embrace, finally unable to hold onto any semblance of cool detachment he'd still had. This was it, wasn't it? The end of Captain Cold. Something Sara had said when they were trapped in the engine room popped into his head: _Is this Leonard Snart coming to God in his final moments?_ Not even remotely. It was simply a surrender to an inevitable conclusion, that without Mick there was no Len. Almost thirty years they'd been partners, most of Len's life, crooked as hell but bound together in all things.

 _Traitor,_ Mick's voice growled at him.

It wasn't until after Ray had gently pried Mick's gun from his hands and set it on the floor that Len realized he was completely encircled by those arms, and he had one of his own around Ray's waist, hand clutching at the soft fabric of his shirt while the other dug into Ray's thigh with a talon grip. His throat closed in again, and he clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth and not daring to open his mouth. It would be so easy to let it happen, let all the things a guy like him should never do happen, all the things he should never say be said.

The fuck had Ray done to him, with his goddamn deep eyes and unfounded kindness, that Len was even thinking about letting everything out?

_Traitor._

Still silent, Ray tightened his embrace around Len, lifting one hand to smooth down the back of his head and neck, and Len let his forehead fall against Ray's chest. He could barely breathe anymore, his throat sore with trying to keep it all in. And … and Ray's shirt was suddenly wet against his face.

 _No,_ he warned himself, gasping for air and holding onto the lifeline that he'd been thrown. Ray's even breaths became a beacon in the dark, and he followed that deep rhythm, letting it soothe him. Slow and easy to take the sting out of his lungs and the tension from his throat.

The silence stretched out in the small cabin, only their breathing filling the long minutes, until finally he felt grounded again, no longer in danger of losing it. Still, he held on, unwilling to face what he'd done yet. He'd deal with the rest of the team later, confront their pitying and wary looks in turn, but for now, in the quiet with Ray, there was no argument, no accusation, no judgment. It might be cold comfort to Mick, frozen and gone, but Len was grateful.

“If you tell anyone about this, I'll kill you,” he managed to rasp against Ray's chest, knowing he would see the small admission for what it was.

Ray only held him closer.


End file.
